


The Silent Orphan

by CheeseLotion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Foster Care, Gen, PTSD, Parentlock, Past Child Abuse, Slight Johnlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 15:05:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1392115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheeseLotion/pseuds/CheeseLotion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A vicious homicide leaves a little girl orphaned. Sherlock is determined to crack the case, and the girl may be the key. Now, if he could only get her to speak...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Third Child

**Author's Note:**

> My first story. Please don't bash me too hard.  
> Also, I'm American and I have no idea how the foster care system works in Britain, but here it's absolute shit and I know several kids in my class who are pretty messed up mentally because they've been through a bunch of foster homes.  
> Trigger warnings for child abuse, drug use, and domestic violence.

It was a pretty gruesome sight, Sherlock had to admit. He'd only seen a few crime scenes coated in this much blood, but of course there were four victims.

The flat was soaked in crimson, the carpet covered so the original color was difficult to discern- a light tan, Sherlock noted from a clean corner. The front door opened to the sitting room, and an open kitchen-dining room. There was the mother, stabbed in the neck so many times it appeared her head was still attached by only a few threads of skin and a half-severed spinal cord. The father was laying on the dining table face down, the majority of stab wounds in his back but the kill wound was in the base of his skull.

To the left, before entering the kitchen, was the entrance to a hallway. The oldest daughter was spread eagle on the floor, her chest slashed maybe a dozen or so times. It was impossible to tell at the moment if she died from blood loss or a stab wound Sherlock couldn't make out in the mess of blood, uprooted muscle, and skin strips. The son was the last victim, a crumbled heap in front of the television. He was the cleanest of the four, the blood only pooling around his midsection, his hat still atop his blonde head.

A single set of bloody shoeprints led from the kitchen to the girl, then to the boy, and then out the door, where the shoes were discarded on the front stoop.

"The family of James Connery," Lestrade said, grimacing at the scene. "Wife, Martha. Daughter, Melissa, and son, James Junior. From what the neighbors say, they were a happy family. Friendly, not a lot of enemies, let alone any that would want to murder them. Connery was a professor at Cambridge."

"Maybe an angry student...?" John suggested. He was still white; he may have been through war but he didn't take well to any case with dead children, even teenagers.

"Don't be daft," Sherlock scoffed. He took a secondary glance around the flat, categorizing every little detail. "What student would murder his professor and most of his family over a bad grade? No, he hated them all, not just Connery."

"Most of?" Lestrade repeated.

"There's a third child," Sherlock said. He carefully stepped over the girl's body, making sure he didn't get any blood on his coat, and started down the hallway.

"No, only two on his file," Lestrade said with certainty.

"There's a third," Sherlock repeated himself, not stopping. Certainly they saw the fifth pair of shoes at the door, the five placemats on the table, three progress reports on the refrigerator. Sherlock followed the hall. There were four doors, not counting the closet at the corner. The single one on the right was wide open, exposing it as the bathroom. The one at the very end was the master bedroom, the king-sized bed neatly made and the floor clean. The two doors on the right were smaller bedrooms, for the children. The one closer to the master bedroom was the boy's, stickers of sports and a caution symbol, as well as a radioactive sign, covered it. A piece of paper read _Jimmy's Room_ in magazine cut-out letters. The other room was the girl's room, littered with hearts and flowers and a sign in cursive that said _Missy._ Under it was a little slip of lined paper in shaky sloppy cursive, _and Violet._

Sherlock opened the door quietly. The murderer wouldn't have taken this Violet. There was no ransom note, no sign that she went, willingly or not. In fact, there was no sign that the girl had left the flat at all. The assailant, like Lestrade, probably didn't even realize there was another girl in the flat.

She was probably a foster child if she wasn't on Connery's official file, Sherlock decided as he glanced around the room. There were two beds that took up a majority of the room, except for a shared nightstand between them under the window, which stood as a marker for the space between the beds themselves, and a meter-wide space between the feet of the beds and the wall, enough for a door to swing open but little else. A closet door stood perpendicular to the bedroom door.

The child wasn't underneath either bed, Sherlock could tell by the distinct silence. He decided that she was in the closet, and opened the door.

At first glance, he was disappointed. There were clothes hung on the rack, old toys and junk boxes laying both on the shelf and the floor. Maybe she had hidden in the boy's room instead. Then Sherlock's eye caught something as he moved to leave: one of the bigger boxes on the floor was open a bit, and a glint of golden brown hair shined faintly in the band of light that slipped through the crack. Sherlock opened the box.

Violet lay in a ball, clutching a porcelain doll and sleeping silently. It was quite impressive that she had managed to fold herself into such a small space. She was very small for a girl her age, ten or eleven. Her hair was long and shiny, obviously natural golden highlights streaking through the rather unique brown. She reminded Sherlock of a small puppy, napping because there had been nothing else to do.

He put a hand on her lithe shoulder and shook it gently. "Wake up," he said softly. "Wake up, Violet."

Her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at Sherlock tiredly. Her sleepy expression turned to one of awe when she met his eyes with her dark ones. In this light, it was impossible to tell her irises from her pupils. Sherlock could see wheels turning in those eyes, an intelligence of the world that shouldn't have belonged to a person so young. Foster care had not been kind to this one.

"John!" he shouted. Violet flinched at the loud sound but didn't avert her gaze. Sherlock could see a thousand questions in her expression, and there wasn't time at the moment to answer any of them. She remained silent, though.

"What is it- oh!" John walked in the room and startled when he saw Violet balled up in her box with her doll. "Hello, there. What's your name?"

It was as if John hadn't even entered the room. Violet kept her eyes on Sherlock, completely entranced by him, trying to figure him out in her ten-year-old mind. The attempt was laughable, but it still left Sherlock with a strange feeling, like he was a petri dish under inspection. He wondered if that was how normal people felt when he deduced them in one glance.

Lestrade and Donovan entered the room as well. "Oh my God!" the woman gasped when she saw the girl. Lestrade looked shocked and confused.

"How did...?"

"She was asleep this whole time, which is why you never found her. I'll admit, I almost missed her," Sherlock explained.

"She's probably impossible to play Hide And Seek with," John mused.

"She must've hidden when she heard what was going on. Smart girl," Lestrade commented. "Getting her out of the flat without seeing all that is gonna be difficult, though."

"I think she'll be fine as long as she stays with Sherlock. She hasn't taken her eyes off of him," John pointed out.

And it ended up that Sherlock carried Violet out of the flat. She was so small, Sherlock could hold her with one arm, and she held onto to him with her small arms wrapped around his neck, her doll tucked safely in the crook of her elbow. Sherlock made no attempt to shelter her from the gory scene as he walked out, but Violet didn't seem to be affected by the carnage around her. In fact, her eyes were unseeing as she gazed blankly at John over Sherlock's shoulder, her mind millions of miles away. She didn't speak a word, not even when Sherlock forced her to unwind her arms and put her in the police car.

"Odd, don't you think?" John asked as they rode in a cab on the way to Scotland Yard. "The way she acted. Like she wasn't frightened at all."

"She's a foster child, John. It's probably a regular occurrence to be in a police car for her," Sherlock sighed.

"Yeah, probably," John agreed quietly. Sherlock stared out the window, thinking.


	2. Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Questioning a ten-year-old isn't as easy as it seems.

Waiting around for the 'professionals' to finish trying to coax Violet into talking was dull to say the least. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he wanted a cigarette so badly. John's hand tremor had come back, as it always did when he started worrying. At last, Lestrade came into the office, file in hand and running his fingers through his hair in frustration. "Nothing, not a word. The girl's a bloody statue," he groaned. "All she does is hold that doll and stare at the table."

"I told you when I walked in here, she wasn't going to speak. She's been through this too many times," Sherlock snapped. Both men stared at him, confused.

"How many times do you think a ten-year-old has sat in an interrogation room?"

"How on Earth could you have figured that?"

They ended up talking over each other, but Sherlock heard them both. "I'd say a fair number of times, John, given the fact that she isn't asking what's going on or where her foster parents are. And as for how I know, Detective Inspector, there are several things, but most prominently is the doll."

Lestrade looked skeptically. "The doll?"

"Yes, her porcelain doll. It's old, chipped, the dress is fraying at the edges, the paint on the face is fading; she's had it for years, it's a constant in her life. Yet for its age, its hair is well kept and the dress is clean and lacks tears. She loves it, it's probably the most important thing she knows. It's comforted her and in turn she takes care of it. To grow an attachment to something that strong, she has to have been through a lot with it. Also, when I was carrying her out of the flat, I could feel her heart rate raise slightly. She understood what happened, to an extent. She knows death and violence. It's not a far leap that she knows about drugs, too. Of course she knows what a police station and an interrogation room is."

John and Lestrade looked dumbfounded at his deduction, at which Sherlock scoffed. "How much did I get right?"

The Detective Inspector cleared his throat and handed Sherlock the file. "Pretty much everything. She's been in four homes before this, and the first one was arguably the best. In the other three, she was taken back because of either a drug's bust or domestic abuse, poor kid."

Sherlock leafed through the file absently, reading a page or two that interested him. "The Connery's took her in as their first foster child. Don't give me that look, it's obvious, otherwise they would've had an adopted child before her."

"They were going to adopt her?" John said, dumbfounded.

"Of course. They had already fully integrated her into the family, trained her to put her shoes at the door, put her report card on the refrigerator door. The only thing left was to fill out the paperwork," Sherlock explained. "Given that  they had taken to her very quickly, it's not impossible to assume they would've already adopted a child if they were regulars with the foster care system. Therefore, Violet was their first foster." He stood abruptly. "I need to speak to her."

"Good luck getting anything out of her," Lestrade scoffed as Sherlock left the room, coat billowing behind him and John on his tail.

"Any ideas?" he asked quietly as Sherlock glided down the hall to the interrogation.

"Several, each as unlikely as the next," the detective replied.

Donovan scowled as Sherlock approached. "Are you sure that's such a good idea after the last time you tried to interrogate a little girl?" she sneered.

"I'm sure it would do some justice to remind you, Sally, that the last time I tried to interrogate a little girl it had been a set-up to frame me," Sherlock snarled back. He folded the collar of his coat down and relaxed his shoulders to make him look less intimidating.

"Remember that she's only ten, Sherlock," John murmured. "She's in shock, she might not respond to you at all." Sherlock nodded impatiently and entered the room.

Violet was sitting, facing the door, one of the Yard's psychologists next to her with an arm wrapped around her shoulders. The girl gazed blankly at the tabletop, cradling her doll and petting its hair soothingly, as if it was in need of calming instead of her. Her mind was clearly reeling, processing everything that had happened. John held his breath but sighed when Sherlock sat down and Violet didn't start screaming.

"Erm, Violet?" Sherlock said as gently as he could. The girl's eyes flew up to stare at him, the blank look gone and relief replacing it. Sherlock offered a sweet smile. "Hello, there. I'm Sherlock Holmes, and this is my assistant, Dr. John Watson. " Something like adoration or wonder filled her eyes, and the men didn't miss it.

"Violet, we need to ask you a few questions. Do you think you could answer them for us?" John asked.

The girl glanced down and hugged her doll to her chest protectively. Sherlock wondered what was going through her head as he watched her rock the doll to and fro; her eyes weren't very betraying of thoughts, only emotions. No doubt she'd learned to hide thoughts long ago.

He leaned forward to give the impression of direction, urgency, and secrecy. "Violet, you saw what happened to your foster family. We want to catch the person who did that. You can help, but you have to speak up. Tell us what you saw and heard, that's all we really want you to do." Sherlock knew by the way John shifted that he was surprised the detective was capable of that amount of earnest begging, and to a ten-year-old for God's sake. Violet looked up at Sherlock, capturing his gaze with her own again. He could see that she wanted to tell him something, she was making up her mind but kept changing it, weighing benefits and consequences. Among the indecision and intelligence, there was some fear.

Violet opened her mouth, and Sherlock's lips twitched into a victorious smile.

A knock on the door made the girl freeze and she shut her mouth again without so much as a whisper. Sherlock's face went sour and he turned to glare at whoever had scared his witness. It was Lestrade.

"Hurry up, Sherlock. The woman from Child Services is here," he announced.

Fear filled Violet's face before she reverted back to her shell, her eyes blank with acceptance. She clutched her doll and closed her eyes for a moment, appearing to collect and brace herself.

Sherlock was livid for an instant. "Now look what you've done, you incompetent-!" He cut himself off, took a breath to calm himself. "She can't go with them, Detective Inspector. It's vital we get her account of the murders, and I can't get it out of her if she's in another abusive home."

"She can't stay here, Sherlock! She needs to go someplace with a bed and some proper food," Lestrade snapped.

"She could stay with us," John suggested with a shrug. Everyone who heard him stared, including Violet. "Well, think about it. She needs to recover, psychologically, and the best way to do that is in a home-like environment. Even if it's dysfunctional, it's gotta be better than what she might've ended up with."

The psychologist scoffed. "That's-"

"Brilliant."

Now everyone's gaze was turned to Sherlock. "No, it is! If she stays with John and I, I'll have better chances of getting her to open up," Sherlock said.

Lestrade looked between the two partners, then to the psychologist, who shook her head 'no' vigorously, and then to Violet, who had snapped to attention and had a look of hope on her face. He sighed in resentful defeat. "Fine."

Of course, such matters were never as smooth as they initially seemed. The woman, Mrs. Trevor, was insistent that she took Violet back into the foster system immediately, to 'better cope with all the stress she's been through." John argued that it would cost less and be more effective if she stayed with them, and Sherlock complained (did not whine, no matter what all of Scotland Yard said) that he needed her to solve the case. Eventually, an hour of shouting and a call to Mycroft later, the men ended up getting what they wanted as usual.

"We should get her something to eat. I bet she's starving," John said when the three clambered into a cab. Violet, who was squished between them, nodded. She held her doll close to her chest and gave John a questioning look. He smiled at her. "And her doll, too."

"We'll go to Angelo's then," Sherlock said. John agreed; Angelo wouldn't mind the late hour, if it was Sherlock and John.

Violet didn't seem to have an opinion on the matter, she just played with her doll on her lap, as silent as ever.


	3. Not Adoption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's just for the case, nothing more.

Angelo greeted the trio at his door. They had caught him just as the last customers finished their meals, and Sherlock had texted him on the way to have a table ready. The large man looked tired and a bit annoyed at the late hour, but he grinned eagerly anyway when he saw Violet. "Hello, little one," he smiled sweetly. Violet hugged her doll and hid behind Sherlock's coat, peeking out at Angelo timidly.

"She's shy," John explained. Angelo nodded understandingly. He led them to their table.

Violet sat down across from Sherlock, putting her doll in the vacant seat across from John. She smoothed out its dress and opened the menu for it before looking through her own menu. John smiled at her, chuckling to himself; Sherlock rolled his eyes, almost amused. "You do realize it's a doll, not a person," he said. John shushed him.

"Sherlock, leave her be," he said warningly. Violet only shrugged and flipped through her menu.

John observed her quietly, and couldn't help but smile at how much she was like Sherlock in certain ways, like how alert she was to everything. Her dark eyes followed Angelo's every movement as he took their orders and brought their food a few minutes later, turning her head every time there was a clatter of dirty dishes from the kitchen. She pointed at Sherlock and the empty table space before him inquisitively.

"He doesn't eat when he's on a case," John said to her when he understood her question. "He says it's slows down his thinking."

Satisfied with the answer, Violet went back to eating. She didn't eat much, John noted as she started absently picking at what was left of her food, which was quite a bit. John decided it was the shock of the day and forced the issue to rest in his mind.

It seemed as though Violet had deemed Angelo safe, because she accepted the lollie he gave her with a quick smile and a blush before sticking it in her pocket for later. She still stayed close to Sherlock as they left, John thanking Angelo for the late dinner and apologizing. "It was nothing, come again at any time," Angelo waved it off. "Oh, and if you need help with the paperwork, I can send my cousin your way."

"Paperwork?" John asked, confused.

"For the girl. You and Sherlock are adopting her, aren't you?"

John's eyes grew very wide. "What? N-no! I mean she's sweet and all, but it's only temporary. Angelo, we're not a-"

"John, hurry up!" Sherlock called as he slid into a cab, Violet right behind him. The man groaned and bid Angelo goodbye as he squeezed in with them.

The cab ride wasn't very long, but in that short time, Violet fell asleep, her doll cradled gently in her drooping arms. She rested her head on Sherlock's arm. The sleuth didn't appear to notice, he was so deep in his thoughts. The cabbie stopped into front of 221B and Sherlock flew out of the taxi, leaving John to pay and carry the now-somewhat awake child inside.

The soldier coaxed Violet into a position to be picked up, since she was obviously still too sleepy to walk properly, and hoisted her up into his arms. "You're a lot heavier than you look," he grunted, shifting her around so she could lay her head on his shoulder and tucking her doll safely between their chests. Violet wrapped her legs around John's waist in a sleepy attempt to hold on. With the girl comfortable, John managed to make his way up the stairs as quietly as he could, fearing Mrs. Hudson to be sleeping.

"Put her in my bedroom, I won't be using it tonight," Sherlock said as John stumbled to the top of the staircase. John did so, fighting his irritation at having to go even further when the sofa was feet from him, reasoning that a bed would be better for Violet to wake up in. He laid her in Sherlock's bed, covering her with the single thin sheet Sherlock kept on it and making sure that her doll was next to her.

"That was awfully kind of you," John said when he reappeared in the sitting room, hanging his coat up on a rung. Sherlock was sitting in his leather chair, hands steepled  and fingers pressed to his chin thoughtfully.

"Hmm?" he hummed after a moment.

"Letting her sleep in your room. I didn't expect that out of you," John elaborated. "I thought you'd make me put her in my room, or toss her on the sofa at the least."

"Violet needs to be comfortable in order for me to get her to talk. Sleeping in a proper bed will be the start of a sense of security, giving the impression of a home. And as I said before, I won't be sleeping in my bed tonight, whereas you most likely will. It was a logical assumption to let her sleep in my bedroom," Sherlock explained with hardly any pause. "Now shut up. I need to think."

"Well, before you think, maybe we should do a little more than put Violet in a bed," John said. He moved to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. "Like cleaning up the kitchen for once."

"John, the kitchen doesn't need to be cleaned-"

"Like hell it doesn't. Your experiments are laying about everywhere, and Violet could get her hands on any of it and accidently think it's some sort of odd food or break a jar or something," John went on. "You said it, Sherlock. We need to make her comfortable. Maybe a somewhat normal kitchen could help that along?"

Sherlock remained silent. John sighed; Sherlock had slipped into his mind palace while he was talking again. "Bugger it, I'm going to bed. Good night, Sherlock," he groaned, heading to his bedroom.

* * *

 

John didn't expect Sherlock to do as he was told. At the most maybe he threw away some old stuff he didn't need anymore. So when he came down the next morning and Sherlock hadn't moved from the chair, all John did was sigh and shake his head. He jumped in shock when he turned the corner to the kitchen.

All of Sherlock's experiments and science equipment was gone, except for the microscope and a few other things that Sherlock had probably deemed okay to leave out. The blood spills and chemicals were all wiped up and the dishes were put away. John opened the fridge to find that everything had been organised and cleaned as well; Sherlock's experiments and chemicals were labeled and all put on one shelf, the food placed on the other for easy access.

The man turned around and gazed at Sherlock in shock for a moment. The stubborn arse had listened to him for once.

Violet emerged from Sherlock bedroom not five minutes later, rubbing at her eyes and carrying her doll at her side. She smiled at the smell of eggs and peered into the kitchen before plopping down in John's chair. She picked up the television remote and turned it on. "Oh, I don't know if we have any cartoon channels," John warned when he heard the anchorman chattering. The channel was changed, and John heard the Doctor Who theme song ringing through the flat. He looked over to see Violet's eyes gazing at the telly, completely entranced by the show.

Figuring she wasn't going to move from that spot, John brought a plate of scrambled eggs and toast to Violet. He offered to make Sherlock a plate as well, but the detective ignored him. Again, Violet didn't eat very much. She returned to the kitchen after a while with most of her breakfast on her plate still and offered it to John silently. She'd only eaten half of her eggs and a few bites of her toast, but it was clear she didn't want any more. John accepted it after some thought and Violet smiled at him briefly.

A few hours later saw Violet looking at Sherlock's books and John typing the newest blog entry. A knock on the door brought them all to attention. "Woo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson crowed, leading in a man from the Yard with a big cardboard box. "This gentleman here says he has a delivery for you, boys- oh! Who might this be?"

Violet gathered up her doll, shrinking from Mrs. Hudson as she drew closer. "Oh dear. She's a shy one, isn't she?" the aging woman asked.

Sherlock stood and took the box from the Yarder without a word. He walked off to his bedroom, Violet following him with her eyes. John sighed and apologized for him. Mrs. Hudson escorted the man out and returned with a grin. John frowned in confusion. "What?"

"This is big, isn't it? Adoption and all this," Mrs. Hudson beamed. "I always thought you'd take in a child a little younger, but she's perfect for you both, you know."

John's cheeks bloomed red and Violet stared from him to Mrs. Hudson and back. "Mrs. Hudson, please. We're not adopting anyone," John said, his voice shaking a bit. "We're not a couple, I promise you."

The woman sighed and looked to Violet. "Don't you worry, deary. He's just keeping up appearances," she said sweetly. Violet blinked in confusion before grazing her eyes over John and nodding.

John had a startling thought that the girl had deduced him like Sherlock so often did, but knocked it away.

Mrs. Hudson held out her hand, and like a timid animal Violet very slowly and carefully put her own hand on it. "It's alright, sweetheart, no need to be so shy. I'm Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. What's your name?"

"Erm, Violet," John said for her. "She doesn't speak," he added.

"Well, now. Hello, Violet," Mrs. Hudson grinned, shaking her hand gently. Violet didn't give any effort into it, and hastily took her hand back when the woman let go. "I live just below, so if you need anything, don't be afraid to come knocking."

She nodded her understanding.

"John!" Sherlock's voice carried into the sitting room. "Violet!" Both went to Sherlock's room, John expecting Sherlock to have had a break in the case. Instead, he was met with yet another surprise, one that made Violet grin with glee.

"What is all this?" John asked.

There was a rack in the middle of the room, only half constructed. Sherlock was struggling with something at the bottom, a bolt or something. The box was open on Sherlock's bed, and John could see a pink shirt hanging off. "I need someone to hold this bar in place," Sherlock grunted, shaking it to show which one. John leapt to assist. "Violet, go change," Sherlock ordered as he screwed in the bolt. Violet nodded and picked out an outfit. She left the room to change, probably in the bathroom.

"So what's this about?" John repeated himself when the rack was steady.

"I arranged with Lestrade to have her clothes brought over," Sherlock explained. "She can't wear the same clothes the entire time she's here. And it's less expensive than going out and buying her a whole new wardrobe."

"And the rack?"

"I don't have room in my dresser for her clothes."

John huffed an unbelieving laugh. "You're absolutely ridiculous."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm attempting to write with more variety, which is why an American is using British spelling. It's an experiment and I haven't been bashed yet, so don't blame me.


End file.
